


zen

by bitch_chan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Butt Slapping, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Fiction, Gay, Gay Sex, Heavy BDSM, Ice Play, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Master/Pet, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mood Swings, Oral Sex, Original Fiction, Pet Names, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Violence, Torture, Triggers, Violence, Yandere, psychotic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitch_chan/pseuds/bitch_chan
Summary: [Male Yandere x Male OC] Obsessive and unstable, Deimos Angelos kidnaps university student, Zen Nygma. Smitten with a physical oddity of his, Deimos only gets more and more attached to him. Will Zen make it through, or will he break along with his captor? [uhmm just adding that this is an original work with original characters, it's not a fanfiction]"𝘖𝘩, 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥." smut and gore warning, not for the faint of heart.
Relationships: Zen Nygma/Deimos Angelos, Zen/Deimos
Kudos: 17





	1. o n e

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first ever horror book as well as smut book that i've ever written, so far, it's been really fun to write and i hope you all enjoy it!

He was laughing maniacally, his once pearly white teeth now stained a deep brownish red. Haunting brown eyes stare into her soul, possessing her thoughts. She can’t move. She can’t feel a thing. The knife slicing her thigh, the man tearing at her muscles and ligaments, the tears falling from her face.

Clumps of blood cake her naked body, deep gouges decorate her back and provide her with an unwanted layer of wet warmth. Yet, she’s freezing cold. Her once long and pretty sun kissed blonde hair is now short, ratchet, and matted with blood, sweat, and dirt.

He continues to talk to her. His face and chest are covered in her slimy pieces. A sharp silver knife rests in his left hand, he picks up pieces of her flesh with his teeth as he leans down and licks her bright red blood from the large wounds on her leg. All of her joints are purple and swollen, from her hip joint to the little ones in her fingers.

As he feasts on the discarded look of her tortured body, face, and mind, he sees life finally start to slip from the once lively baby blues that she possesses. Her body goes even limper than before. Blood starts flowing a little less as her naked chest finally ceases it’s once neverending movement.

With a discontented sigh, the boy sits back on his knees, his face wrinkled at the dead girl in front of him. Disgusting. After all of our fun, she leaves just like that. How vapid. He stands up and walks to the large metal sink a few feet away from him. He cleans his face, hands, and chest with the water. Streams of red flowing down the drain like wasted paint. Once he is clean, he rests his weight on the hands pressing into the metal ring of the sink, a sigh drips from his mouth. Now I have to deal with this mess.

His dilemma is short lived, however, as he grabs the large kitchen knife that rests on the counter a few inches away. Turning to the mangled corpse, he begins to saw away at the body’s already tortured joints. He severs the legs from the torso, then the thighs from the shins. The feet from the shins, and the toes from the feet. 

He goes back to the lacerated torso of his victim and slices her down the middle, sternum to stomach. He pulls back her flesh and smiles grimly at the sight of her internal organs and bones. He feels as though something is missing. He sits back onto the hardwood kitchen floor and thinks for a moment. Music.

A large smile decorates his face as he hums his way over to the record player. He sifts through the colourful records, in search of a worn mustard yellow one. Once he finally finds it, he takes the record from its protective casing and sets it gently onto the record player.

He knows this one by heart. As the record spins, he delicately places the needle in the exact spot it needs to be, and the sound of the song fills the heavy air. Trumpets blare as he takes the knife to the woman’s chest, slicing the skin of her breast. It’s squishy in his hand, now covered in red stains. He hums along to the melody of the song, the familiar sounds triggering past memories. He continues to work on the woman’s torso. Cutting. Slicing. Severing. Breaking.

He then moves to her shoulders, dissecting the joints haphazardly, for it won’t harm her, she’s far too dead for that. Continuing to chop and toss her limbs as they land loudly on the wood flooring. Once he finishes, he reaches her face. For fun, he decides to play with her hair, taking groups of the blonde strands and hacking away at them, the disregarded hair falling to the floor uselessly.

They pile under her divided and limp body. He looks at her tear stained face in disgust, eyes wide as the terror of her last memory still lingers. Ghastly. No wonder this bitch was so desperate. He thinks before taking the knife to the corner or her saddened mouth.

“Oh, no, no. This won’t do. You look so sad, and we can’t have that. Why don’t you put on a smile?” He asks, the edge of the blade now wedged between her lips, pressing into the corner connecting them. With slow movements, his knife cuts through the skin of her cheeks and stops at the start of her bloodied ears, the sound of tearing flesh accompanies the grand music. Once finished, he sits back on his knees to admire his work. “Gorgeous! See, isn’t that so much better, my love?”

He receives no answer from the corpse. Her jaw permanently hinged open, her smooth skin split and irritated. The woman inside her had been stripped out. Tortured into the deep abyss of her soul before finally ascending at death. All that is left of this woman, this life and story, is a mess of broken bones, sawed limbs, chopped flesh, and blood.

A sad ending to any life. After he finished with her jaw, he quickly lost interest in her. No point in continuing. With an annoyed sigh, he reluctantly takes her limbs and other body parts and cuts them into even smaller pieces.

His stomach swirls as he recalls the taste of her fleshy body. It was unpleasant. Yet, he wants more. He wants to eat all of her. Her liver, her lungs, her toes, her nose, her tongue. Yes, he’s always wondered what a tongue would taste like, the inception and ironic implications of tasting the thing that tastes amuses him. He scampers back from his thoughts and turns his attention back to the task he set to do previously.

It’s strenuous work, and by the time he’s finished, the song has long since ended, the sound still lingering in the deep depths of his mind. The cold body parts are squished into a black garbage bag, double wrapped. Then, the bag of human is placed in a cardboard box, the box is sealed with tape and placed in the back of his car. Though she is dismembered, the parts of her body are still weighted, and by the time he finishes hauling the corpse into the boot, he’s exhausted. His kitchen is still messy from his hobby. He groans at the thought.

He runs a hand through his brown hair, the short strands settling back into their places almost immediately. He wants to not care, to let the blood, dirt, and smell pile up, but that’d be worse than death for him. Giving in to his subconscious, he grabs bleach, cloths, buckets, and sponges, ready to clean the mess she made. As he scrubs furiously, his mind recounts how he met the woman two weeks before. His friends had made him go drinking with them, the adults bar-hopping throughout the night before deciding to end by partying in a new, high-end club.

The club they went to had many men and women crowded into it, sweaty bodies, the smell of alcohol, and sex filled the space. He had to keep himself from gagging as he walked in, a pleasant smile plastered onto his face. He sat at the bar by himself, while his friends drank and danced their thoughts and feelings away.

“Deimos! Bro! What’re you doing just standing here? You look like a fucking loser!” A young man in ripped jeans and a white button down drapes himself on top of Deimos, his curly blonde hair damp with sweat. Deimos resists the urge to shove him off, the smell of sweat and desperation oozing from his friend disgusts him in many ways.

Despite his want to send his “friend” across the room, he just smiles and laughs loudly. “What’re you talking about Mikey? I get to see all the action from here, I’ve got my eye on someone too,” Deimos tells his friend as he subtly shifts the blond off of him and onto a barstool next to them.

Mikey smiles wide and claps Deimos on the shoulder, the taller flinching minutely at the contact. “That’s my boy! Go out and get some bitches tonight,” Mikey praises before he stumbles his way back onto the dance floor. Once the drunk blond is gone from his sight, Deimos’ polite smile is wiped completely from his face, an uninterested expression taking its place.

His dark eyes scan the room, music booming behind his ears and into his head. A blonde girl catches his eye, well, the person dancing with the blonde girl catches his eye. The girl is short, around five foot five, her dress is a bright pink and doesn’t leave much to wonder about. Her hair is shiny yet mussed up, face bright and eyes shining.

The guy dancing with her is peculiar. He’s attractive. On the shorter side too, maybe five foot eight at best. His hair is an unnaturally vivid red and falls over his eyes lazily, he has an easy smirk on his face as he dances with the blonde girl. But, it’s his eyes that attract Deimos’ attention. They’re a violent purple, the shade the same as a February amethyst.


	2. t w o

Deimos can’t look away from the stranger, his heart speeding up and thumping wildly in his chest, knocking against his ribcage. What is this feeling? What has he done to me? Am I dying? He asks himself these questions, this feeling of adoration for another living human completely foreign and unrecognizable for him. He needs him, Deimos decides. Needs to feel his red hair in his fingers, needs to feel his skin on his, a thought runs through Deimos’ mind.

Oh, to see those violet eyes well up with tears as I push him to his limit. To see the border between pain and pleasure, what sound he’d make when the tightrope between them is snapped. His body shudders in anticipation at the thought, want slowly creeps into him like a venom. Deimos has decided, I need him.

He will get him, he will get to hear his screams, watch his gorgeously intriguing eyes well up with salty tears. Deimos’ resolve snaps and he makes his way toward the handsome couple. At the sight of him, the blonde girl perks up, an immediate smile presenting itself.

“Hello darlings, I saw you both dancing from across the room and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. Are you two a couple?” Deimos inquires before sending a look to the boy, lust heavy in his eyes, for sex or for blood, one could not answer. The girl laughs loudly. “A couple? Of course not, he’s my cousin!” She exclaims over the music. Deimos laughs along with her, underlying intentions lace his snicker. “I’m sorry for assuming, it’s just, you’re both so attractive, anyone who didn’t know you would think so,” he comments.

“You’re too much! What’s your name? I’m Jayla,” she informs as she looks for his answer. “I’m Deimos. If I may ask, what’s your cousin’s name?” Deimos asks Jayla as he notices her cousin had seemed to space out, seemingly totally disinterested in his flirtations. “Oh! Don’t mind him, he’s boring. His name is Zen,” Jayla tells Deimos as she taps Zen on the shoulder, bringing him back to the present.

The moment Zen’s vibrant violet eyes make contact with Deimos’ own, he feels as if his entire world has stopped. The colour completely entraps Deimos, it looks so very unnatural, yet, from what he can see, there are no contacts on Zen’s eyes. Oh, how extraordinary! They’re natural! It’s so much better than I had imagined. How I’d love to see fear in those gorgeous eyes of his, I must have him even more now!

Deimos gets carried away in his thoughts and almost misses Zen’s dainty voice greeting. “Hello,” it’s so quiet compared to the booming bass coming from the club’s speakers. His voice rings inside Deimos’ head, repeating and chiming. Zen’s small acknowledgement of Deimos is enough to have the brunet’s head spinning with that dangerous thirst once again. It is in that moment that Deimos devises his plan to acquire the exquisite individual, starting with obtaining both their numbers from the source.

The car door slams as Deimos shoves a key into the key port of the old vehicle, the ignition starting up. The pieces of flesh, bone, and meat that was once a breathing woman lie in the boot of the car, heavy in weight but insubstantial in the coves of Deimos’ mind. He presses a button for a CD to play, the same music fills the car that filled his house hours before. He hums along to it, mind easy and body relaxed.

The road is barren and the sky is dark, stars shine and sparkle in the cosmos above. Trees start to become more and more apparent as Deimos travels down country roads, untraveled by most, but they are as familiar to him as the top of his hand. He parks the shiny silver car in a clearing only known by him and the local wildlife. Opening the trunk, he takes out the box of Jayla’s remains and starts to haul it far from the car.

Once he’s at his desired spot, he dumps the cardboard box hard unto the ground, a resounding thump interrupting the quiet of night. “Now that’s all taken care of,” he says to himself as he claps his hands together before turning back around in the direction of his car. The night is cold and the air has a frosty haze to it, fallen leaves crunch under Deimos’ boot, the heavy sound resonating in the empty forest.

As his silver vehicle comes into sight, Deimos can’t contain his excitement, for his plan to obtain Zen is finally starting to be set into motion. While Deimos kept Zen’s cousin captive, he had been texting the boy throughout the two weeks, offering consolation and affirmation that the police would find her alive and well. The irony makes him laugh.

Now that the pesky blonde is out of the way, Deimos can begin the part of his plan that excites him the most, the initial events. The beginning stages of his plan are brutal, heart breaking, and so, so, exciting. Deimos’ thoughts start to run wild as he backtracks the route he’d taken before, mind playing out hypothetical situations involving the younger redhead.

He can’t help the shiver of pleasure that runs down his spine at his intrusive thoughts, the pitter-patter of heavy raindrops accompanies the fictitious images. Time seems to pass by fast when you’re submerged in your thoughts, at least, that’s how it felt to Deimos. It was as if he’d only been on the road twenty minutes instead of sixty before he was already pulling up to his house.

Slamming the doors shut, Deimos trudges his way through the cold, early morning rain. He arrives at his front door, and simply twists the knob to open it, for he had not locked it as he left. He sighs once inside. His heart thumps in his chest at the realization of what’s finally going to come. Walking through the front hall and into the kitchen, Deimos grabs his phone off the kitchen table and pulls up Zen’s contact. Do you want to come over tomorrow? We can rent a movie and have some drinks.

Deimos’ heart pounds in his chest in an unfamiliar way, though his eagerness seems to override the loud thumps of his heart. Deimos’ brown eyes bore into his phone screen, waiting impatiently for Zen’s response. Just as he thinks he’ll implode, Deimos seeing the long awaited three typing dots appear at the bottom of the chat. Sure, what time? It’s those three words that changes the fate of both individuals. Without missing a beat, Deimos texts the younger the time as well as his address.

The brunet shakily places his phone down on the countertop and walks up the creaky and old wooden stairs. As he walks through the dim hallway, he strips of his clothes and discards them into the shadows. Once at the bathroom, Deimos immediately turns on the showerhead and steps into the shower. The water is cold against his skin for a brief moment before blending into hot water, the change in temperature causing goosebumps to break out all over Deimos’ body. 

As he relaxes under the continuous stream of water, again, his mind can’t help but wander over to thoughts about Zen. His voice as he screams, on that small line between pleasure and pain. The wet, watery tears in his purple eyes, overflowing onto his cheeks. The way he’d whimper and weep, how he’d flinch and fight back.

A wave of pleasure tingles down Deimos’ back and settles at his groin. All the blood rushes toward his dick, the hypothetical images and scenes of Zen still running through Deimos’ head. Unable to take the pressure, he lowers a hand to his erection and begins to rub himself, palming at the limb. A pleasured sigh falls from his mouth, his hand moving faster. The tip of his cock is an angry red, need piles up inside the pit of Deimos’ abdomen. He continues to work his hand fast against his dick when an image of Zen on his knees in front of him, his cock in his mouth, makes its way into Deimos’ imagination.

At the thought, another wave of uncontrollable pleasure makes a course through him. His body is wet, covered in droplets of water and sweat, his breathing is quick and heavy. Another image of Zen in front of him comes up, this time his face is covered in Deimos’ sticky seed, and a mischievous smile is on his face, accompanying tears of pleasure. With a final grunt, Deimos cums into his hand, white lines spurting up onto his tanned chest. He rubs himself through his high. Panting as he finishes, Deimos leans against the shower wall, catching his breath as the hot water continues to run its course over his body.

As Deimos sinks back into the water, his breathing normalizes, any remnant of his previous actions washed down the drain. He grabs a grey washcloth and a bar of soap, he lathers the cloth and begins to wash himself. His dark hair is matted against his forehead, his body twitches unconsciously whenever his hand runs over a certain area. Deimos tries to ignore the sensation, he squeezes a generous amount of shampoo into his hand before scrubbing it into his hair and then washing it out, bubbles rolling down his body along with the warm streams of water.

He turns off the tap and steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He walks back into his room, throws on a pair of boxers and collapses onto his bed, body worn from the day’s activities. He sleeps deeply, dreams full of moments and pictures of Zen. Morning seems to come doubtfully fast, sun shining through sheer black curtains onto Deimos’ calm, sleeping body. The sun continues it’s path in the sky as Deimos shuffles around in his bed before finally opening his eyes up to the world around him.

With a tired grunt he props himself up on his elbows and reaches over to grab his phone. As he wakes up, he remembers that today is the day that his plan will finally come to fruition, the day he’ll finally get what he wants. Deimos picks himself up from his bed and throws on a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a tight white muscle tee, the fabric clings to his skin, showing off his hard-earned muscles. 

He sighs happily, his body relaxing as he walks out of his room, stretching his arms as he continues down the hallway. His good mood seems to be infectious to the inanimate objects around him, the lights are brighter, clothing softer, food tastier. The day continued on as Deimos cleaned little things up around his house and got the necessary items for this evening’s activity. Before he knows it, there’s knocking at his door. He swings open his door to reveal Zen, his red hair slightly frizzy and his cheeks and nose are dusted pink from the cold air. Deimos can feel his heart stutter at the sight of him, his brown eyes rake across Zen’s figure before he smiles and steps aside.

“Hi Zen! Come in!” Deimos gestures for the younger male to come inside. Zen steps through the doorway, unknowingly sealing his fate to the horrors that lie ahead. He walks through the main hallway, a watchful feeling hangs over his head. Zen turns around to face Deimos, his red hair swishing gently along with his movements. Zen’s violet eyes scan up in search of Deimos’ brown ones, his thumbs fidgeting with each other.


	3. t h r e e

“Um, where’s your bathroom?” Zen asks shyly, his face now pink from embarrassment instead of the cold. Deimos laughs at his skittish attitude and points at a room off to the side. “It’s right there. Oh, and please take off your shoes, I don’t like dirt,” he says, the last words spoken heavily laced with malice and ill-intent.

“Oh, okay,” Zen mutters quietly before taking off his shoes and placing them on a mat by the front door. The redhead makes his way into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him before leaning back on it; his heart pounding in his ears and his heavy breathing invading the air.

He was not ready for this, not ready in any way. Deimos was the last person to see his cousin, they’d gone on a date and Jayla had gone missing the morning after. Zen wasn’t ready for Deimos himself, too. Deimos towers over him, his dark eyes are deep and hypnotizing, like an arcane abysmal pool.

His hair is messy, but in a charming way, his smile is charming as well. It didn’t help that his muscles were on display due to his shirt. But, God, the way he spoke made Zen want to tremble his way into a little ball, voice deep and soporific, yet intimidating and malicious.

Zen tries to calm himself down, but memories of Deimos keep plundering his mind. Deimos sits impatiently in the living room, television on and bottles of alcohol on the coffee table. Without another thought, Zen calms himself down, splashes his face with water, and exits the bathroom. He doesn’t see Deimos in the hallway, like before; instead, he hears the sound of the TV running some kind of program.

Walking towards the noise, his heart begins to thump again. As he reaches the living area he sees Deimos sitting on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, a bottle of beer resting in his left hand, the remote in the other. Zen lightly clears his throat. Deimos doesn’t jump at the sound, he simply turns his head to the side to make eye contact with Zen’s plum coloured ones.

With a shaky smile, Zen walks around the back of the couch and stands awkwardly in Deimos’ line of sight. “So...what are we watching?” Zen asks a little cautiously. Deimos is quiet. It’s unnerving and Zen finds himself more uncomfortable than before. Deimos soon breaks out into a bright smile, mouth wide and eyes closed. “No need to be so on edge! We’re all friends here, right?” Zen visibly relaxes at Deimos’ words, his worries subsiding as he nods in confirmation.

“Of course,” he replies. The awkwardness abates as Zen takes a seat next to Deimos on the carpeted floor, bottles of cheap booze and liquor decorating the top of the table. The brunet sends him a smile and gestures his hand to the various drinks in front of them. “Have anything you want, what movie should we watch?” Deimos asks him as he presses the button on the remote to scroll through the various available movies.

“U-um, I don’t really mind,” Zen tells the older, before grabbing himself a beer and a bottle opener. Sighing into the side of the couch, Zen finally lets go and allows himself to relax. I needed this. He looks back up at the TV to see Deimos’ choice of movie, V for Vendetta. Um, an interesting choice for a date. Wait, is this a date? No, he just invited me over to spend some time together as friends, that’s all.

You see, ever since Zen had met Deimos, his mind had been filled with thoughts of the taller. He felt guilty, his cousin and closest family member, had gone missing, and was still missing; yet, all he could really think about was Deimos.

He wanted to know everything about him, his favourite colour (red), if he was a dog or cat person (cat), his favourite food (Poptarts), and most importantly, Deimos’ sexuality (...). Zen couldn’t help but imagine himself and the brunet in various...situations. Ones that would have his mind swirling and his stomach doing flips, his groin heating up and his body tingling. But, he couldn’t think about that now, not in his home, and definitely not in front of him.

Trying to clear his mind of impure thoughts, Zen takes a swig of his beer and listens to the opening narration of the movie, the fictional story of Evey Hammond beginning. The movie plays as Zen starts to drink more frequently, getting lost in the gross, yet pleasant, taste of the alcoholic drinks surrounding him.

As he drank more and more, he gradually began to forget Deimos’ presence, or even the sound of the movie. He was so lost in his own world that he didn’t notice the malicious smirk that had drawn itself on Deimos’ handsome face. “Good...good night,” Zen murmurs out before slumping over, finally giving in to the desire to sleep, his head going slack against his shoulder.

He’s numb. His body feels heavy, yet weightless. He’s surrounded by a world of black. He’s cold too, lying on his back on some kind of hard floor, he knows that much. There’s something in his mouth, it’s round and there’s straps keeping it secure. His hands are tied and he’s in nothing but underwear.

Zen tries to move his arms, but the shackles keeping him bound rub against his wrists uncomfortably. He tries to shake the blindfold from his face, but it does not budge. Tears start to gather in his eyes, his view of anything around him obstructed by a cloth. Sobs cause his body to shake, drool seeping out of his mouth against the balled barrier, Oh, God! What’s going on? Where am I? Where’s Deimos?

He continues to struggle, the sound of metal against metal clanking together as he does so. He feels the drag of his boxers on the solid ground beneath him, he concludes that it must be concrete. As Zen finally starts to calm himself down, the sound of squeaky metal hinges fill the room. The thumping of heavy boots accompanies the newfound voice speaking to him, “Oh, you’re awake, how wonderful!” Zen immediately recognizes the voice as Deimos’ unique tone.

At the sound of his voice, Zen realizes his predicament, It was him. Deimos did this. His awareness causes tears to spring up once again, his pale body curling up against itself. “Look at you, crying like a sad puppy. You look so pitiful. So...delightful,” Deimos’ voice gets closer and closer, his breath creeping up the side of Zen’s body.

Said boy shakes violently as he looks desperately into the black void created from his blindfold, wanting to see some form of light. Time seems to drag on as Deimos crawls a hand up Zen’s chest, the skin wet with tears and drool. His large hand drags itself up to Zen’s dampened cheeks before tugging off the blindfold impetuously, exposing Zen’s perse eyes to the world around him. They’re wide and overflowing with tears, barely a second passes before Deimos’ charming face replaces the dank walls surrounding them.

“Look at those tears, just magnificent. Here, you need to eat,” Deimos exclaims before tilting Zen’s head down forcefully so that a bowl of oatmeal and a plastic spoon are in his line of sight. “Yummy isn’t it?” Deimos takes his focus off of Zen for a moment to slide the bowl slightly farther away before turning his attention back to the red head.

“Oh no, I forgot you had that on. Here, let me help,” he says as he forcibly removes the ball gag from the younger’s mouth, no concern for his victim apparent. Zen pants in relief as the plastic sphere is finally discarded, his head leaning back on a metal pole behind him, his eyes lidded in fear and exhaustion. He glances down at the meal given to him, the oats bland in colour and probably in flavour too.


	4. f o u r

Deimos’ fingers trail over the area of his mouth, poking and prodding at Zen’s pinkened and still damp cheeks before Deimos gently runs a thumb over Zen’s plump lower lip, gently prodding to be let inside. At the intrusion, Zen widens his mouth and chomps down on the limb inside his mouth as hard as he can. The tangy taste of iron explodes in his mouth as Deimos screams in anguish. “You bitch!” He exclaims as he frantically rips his fingers from Zen’s mouth while screaming hysterically.

“Fine! You want to be a dog and bite me? Be a fucking dog!” Deimos bellows, violently grabbing Zen’s long red hair before forcing his face into the bowl of oatmeal. “Eat it! Fucking eat it!” Deimos growls out as Zen sputters and coughs, attempting to not choke on the bland grain. He thrashes around in a frenzy, trying all he can to rid Deimos’ unlatching grasp on his hair, arms and hands desperately searching for some way to free themselves from their bonds and defend him.

The wet fodder sticks its way into his hair, eyes, nose, and mouth, the gooey yet chunky food unwantingly adhering to his face. His chest is tight, the oatmeal blocking his airways both ways. Zen cries out in distress and puts forth all his effort to shift himself from it, but Deimos’ bleeding hand continues to shove him into the bowl.

Bright blood runs through Zen’s hair, blending into the cherry red colour before it streams down his forehead and chin directly into the food under him. After what seems like hours of struggle, Deimos finally lessons up on his pressure.

Zen heaves laboriously as an attempt to gain the air supply needed, his body is weak and he lies limp on the cold concrete floor. His moment of rest is stripped away as he’s yanked up by his hair once again, pain flaring though his head.

“Have you learned your lesson, mutt?” Deimos inquires as he pulls Zen close to him, the brunet’s hot breath presses against Zen’s face. Zen, too terrified to speak, only shifts his head up and down slightly. “What was that? Do you need to be commanded like a dog too? Speak, bitch!” Deimos compels scarily, Zen shaking and sobbing against him.

“Y-yes! I learn-learned my le-lesson,” Zen whimpers out, terrified. Satisfied with his answer, Deimos tosses the red-head aside, the boy landing harshly on his bound hands.

He lets out a small shriek of surprise and pain. Deimos pays no mind to his distress and glares at him with an approving gaze, “Good. Now you must face your punishment. Bad dogs get muzzled,” He snarls before snatching a different gag before fixing it onto Zen’s head. This time, the gag straps around his head, and instead of a ball, a rubbery-plastic bone is shoved into his mouth.

A separate piece is then attached to each end of the bone, the other side wrapped around and secured to the pole Zen’s pressed up against, restricting his head of any kind of movement. His bound hands are then tied to the pole as well, making sure that he is surely not going anywhere.

“Done. Now, while I clean up the mess you made, you’re going to take your punishment like a good boy,” Deimos finishes before turning around, clutching his bleeding left hand in the palm of his right. Once he leaves the room, Zen sighs in relief, though, not too much. His head is held taught against the freezing pole, upright and stiff. He can already feel his neck cramping. This isn’t the worst he could do. Oh, God, why did you do this to me? Why you? Why you, Deimos?

Tears start to pool for the third time as Zen tries to relax as much as he can. What did I do for this to happen? He meekly thinks to himself before he stops the effort of keeping control of the dam that holds the tears back. Letting them fall down his face silently and steadily, he sits still, wrapped in his thoughts as the tears keep running down and down his face, dripping into little puddles on his bare thighs and ground below. Streams roll as he closes his eyes and wills for sleep to come, and as if the gods had pity on him, his wish is granted.

Deimos kisses his teeth at the stinging pain that comes with cleaning out his newly acquired wounds, teeth marks and gashes decorate his left index and middle finger, deep gouges stained a muddy red from the previously gushing blood. The blood had stopped flowing a little less as he shoves his hand underneath the running tap, effectively cleaning off the rest of the blood as well as the left over oatmeal. While he fumbles around with the first aid kit in his search for the proper tools to care for his injury, he realizes the full extent of what he had done.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He angrily says to himself as he pours a generous amount of peroxide onto his open wounds, the sharp sting intensifying. He tries his best to ignore it as he clumsily grabs a roll of gauze and wraps it tightly around the damaged fingers before adhering it in place with medical tape. The stinging had gone down, though, not by much. He looks up at his reflection in the mirror, his dark eyes hazy and crazed. Droplets of blood stain his face and neck, his short hair mussed up and sticking out in every direction like a porcupine’s quills.

Staring into the reflection of himself, Deimos finally fully processes his actions. As the understanding of what he’d done to Zen becomes clear, Deimos can feel the water pool in his own eyes. “No, no no no no. I never meant to do that. I didn’t want to do that, no! Why did I do that?” Deimos asks himself.

“He...deserved it though. No, he did not! He disobeyed me, he bit me like a goddamn mutt. Yes...yes. He did get his punishment, he learned his lesson,” Deimos rants to himself, mind spinning, tears flowing. His thoughts are against each other, his intentions not clear to him. He wants to see Zen suffer, he wants to see the boy’s violet eyes overrun with tears, face smothered in blood, voice crying in anguish and ecstasy.

But, he wants to see it. Deimos doesn’t want to shove Zen’s head into a bowl of oatmeal, he doesn’t want to kill him. No, Deimos wants to almost kill him, to torture his mind and body. To kill the human inside but keep the one on the outside alive. To see him break. Witness his mind crumble into pieces right in front of me, and because of me.

Deimos shivers from the thought, any sign of remorse or turmoil from his previous actions thrown to the wolves. He ignores any implication of his lust and shoves it down deep inside of him. No, he’s taking a punishment. I cannot go in there, he needs to learn his place. Deimos decides to himself that two days of isolation and restricted movement would be a fitting punishment. He pushes any thought of Zen into the back of his mind as he goes on about his day.

Deimos continues on, making dinner for himself and sitting down at the bleak, sad dining table while doing some left-over paperwork from the office. His entire being is bored, uninterested and floating in the clouds. He drifts off when he realizes that Zen should get a reward for his punishment, and in return, Deimos gets a reward too. He turns his focus to his computer, searching up certain items that he’d like to use. Hours seem to pass by like minutes as Deimos loses himself to the wondrous and addictive black hole of the internet.

Even after shutting off his computer, cleaning the entire kitchen, taking a shower, and lying in bed, he can’t get the thoughts of Zen in the new toys he’ll buy out of his mind. Falling asleep to images of Zen, Deimos slumbers into the next day. Unfortunately, he had work today. A boring, insipidly agonizing place to work. No drama worthwhile, no paperwork or projects even remotely challenging, even colours don’t waste their time in the bland office building.

Deimos arises calmly and before the sun the next day, excited to spend money on his desired play pieces. Taking a quick shower, he wastes as little time as he can, drying off, getting dressed, and other routine actions are quick and mindless. Hands fidgeting as he drives himself to the adult play store miles away. Once he arrives, he cannot contain his excitement and he hurriedly turns his car off and slams the door behind him. Entering the store, he grabs a plastic basket and goes straight to the toys, eyes searching for the four or five specific items that he needs.

Scavenging through aisles of vibrators, ropes, lube, magazines, movies, and various other things, he finally comes across his desired items. He stares at the large selection of colours until he comes across a set the exact colour of Zen’s bright red hair. It may not be his natural colour...but it does match. He grabs the box and moves on to the next item.

Which one should I get him? I don’t want him to be uncomfortable, maybe this one? No, that might be a little tight. Oh, this one has a nice lining on the inside, I don’t want to leave him with marks. Ooh, and the lead is chained. This’ll look so good on him!


	5. f i v e

As Deimos walks back up to the counter, ready to pay, he travels back down the isle stocked with vibrators. They all look rather similar, nothing too fancy, until he spots something intriguing. A..ring? What is this used for? 

He grabs the plastic packaging and reads the side of the box, his eyes widen in shock and he quickly tosses it into the basket with his other items as his mind runs miles and miles, thinking of what he could do to Zen with the help of the little plastic ring. As he walks up to the counter for the final time, he blindly grabs a random selection of lube and shoves them in the basket as well.

He sets his basket down on the check out counter and begins to take each item out of the basket and hand them to the cashier. The clerk, a tall beefy guy with multiple piercings and tattoos, stares at Deimos with a sex-filled smirk. “Planning for a night of fun, are you?” He inquires, clearly interested in the shorter brunet.

Deimos stays quiet and silently swipes his card, paying for the items. As he’s about to grab his purchases, clouded from the public by an opaque black bag, the store clerk starts up again. “You know, I-” “I’m not interested,” Deimos interrupts abruptly before snatching his bags and marching out of the store.

He sets down the bags on the passenger seat and starts up his care before hightailing it out of the parking lot, extremely annoyed. He practically speeds his way back home, somehow not earning himself a speeding ticket, slams open his front door, and makes his way upstairs to throw on his work clothes.

Without another thought, for if he did think, he’d never leave, Deimos grabs his work materials, keys, and heads out the house to get his boring day at work over with. Not a single moment went by where Deimos wasn’t thinking of Zen, of his glorious eyes, his shaggy red hair, pink cheeks, soft skin, and delicate cries. The day seemed to drag on more than usual, his co-workers more annoying, and his paperwork even more dull.

It seemed like years before Deimos clocked out, and by then, he was so desperate he could’ve imploded right then and there. Without another thought, he advances home, hands shaking from his eagerness. Once he arrives, he disregards everything and strips himself of his work clothes, throwing on a pair of dark sweats and opting to leave his upper half bare. He lies down on his bed, chest heaving, mind spinning. But, he forces himself to wait, to seem less eager. So he pushes himself from his bed and walks as calmly as he can down the stairs.

Stopping at the kitchen, he prepares a snack for himself, Deimos will need his energy for the upcoming events. He also prepares a meal and a large cup of water for Zen, as part of his punishment was isolation and no food or water for a few days, to let him know that he is not the one in control. He munches on his snack of toasted blueberry PopTarts and a small orange.

Due to his preoccupied mind, Deimos doesn’t pay attention to the little fruit in his hand, the citrus crushed in his fist, translucent orange juice runs down his hand, leaving a sticky, messy trail behind it.

“Shit!” Deimos exclaims before tossing the fruit into the bin and walking to the bathroom sink. Scrubbing his hand of the sticky juice, he looks up at himself in the mirror stares into his own eyes. Soulless, irrefutably soulless. Deimos gets lost in the deep colour of his own eyes, unable to look away from himself. Memories and figures passing through his mind before they’re all steadily replaced by one person, Zen. It’s then that he remembers the multitude of things he’d bought in the early morning.

A tingle runs down his spine and settles into a hot ball at his groin, his newfound erection tightening his sweatpants. Images of Zen run through his mind like they had before, though the ones now are more vivid, more alive. He can almost feel Zen’s small, pale hand rubbing him through the fabric of his joggers, agitating the sensitive area.

Deimos loses himself to the fantasy of Zen, the feeling of his plump lips on his skin, saliva slicking up his dick, face teary-eyed yet looking so fucked out. Deimos had already been rubbing a hand against himself when he realized that the source of his problem was less than a hundred feet away.

Straightening himself up, Deimos strolls out of the bathroom and back up the stairs to his room. Grabbing the multitude of black bags he descendants quickly and fast-walks to the old, unfinished mud-room. He opens the door, eyes lustful and seeking as his pants start to have a growing dark spot on the front of them. His eyes land on Zen’s sleeping body, the boy covered in the remnants of Deimos’ blood and chunks of oatmeal. His hair is extremely out of place and falls over his eyes in a scruffy, messy way.

The sound of Deimos trudging in and the squeaky door hinges wakes Zen from his slumber again and he attempts to shift himself but to no avail. His head is still restrained, his joints aching, mouth sore from the gag, stomach growling, and body stiff.

He opens his eyes slightly, being met with the sight of a panting, shirtless Deimos, black bags in each hand. Zen whines out at the sight of him, hoping to be freed from his bonds. Deimos kicks the door closed behind him and walks his way over to Zen’s perch.“Hello puppy, did you learn your lesson?” It’s when Deimos is close that Zen sees the tent in his pants, a dark spot covering it. In an effort to respond, Zen tries his best to answer, only mustering enough sound to let out a measly whimper.

“Aww, poor puppy. You’re probably miserable. But, you took your punishment like a good boy, so now you can have your reward,” Deimos tells him as he reaches around to untie the gag from the pole. He undos the straps on Zen’s gag and let’s it fall from his face, Zen immediately stretches his mouth and licks his lips, rolling his stiff neck from side to side.

“There you go. Now, I’m going to remove the ropes on your arms, and they’ll stay off if you can prove that you’ll be a good boy and obey me, do you understand?” He explains, looking Zen in the eye. The red-head nods his head. “Words, pup,” Deimos demands. Zen swallows and opens his mouth, “Ye...yes.”

Deimos smiles, “good.” He then picks up both black bags and dumps the contents out on the floor, Zen goes pale at the sight. There’s a matching pair of red fluffy hair clips that look like dog ears and a bushy red tail to go with it. On the end of the tail, there’s a curvy silver piece that’s attached to it, it’s then that Zen realizes what’s going to happen.


	6. s i x

He’s going to put that inside me! Along with the ears and tail, there’s a bright yellow collar, the outside face a hard leather and the inside a smooth velvet. Attached to it is a sparkling metal chain link leash. There’s packages and packages of lube as well, various brands and flavours. And finally, there’s a little device that Zen recognizes as a cock ring, though this one seems to be different than the ones he’d seen.

This one had a little remote that came with it, and with that, Zen deduces that it must vibrate. Deimos picks up the leash and straps it onto Zen’s neck, shoving a few fingers between the collar and the younger’s neck to make sure it’s not too tight.

Carefully and delicately, Deimos fixes up Zen’s hair to the best of his ability and clips the fluffy ears in, making sure that they’re secure before walking to the other side of him and undoing the ropes that held him to the pole. At the release of his arms and hands, Zen quickly brings them to his front and rubs his wrists, purple and red marks pain his skin from where the rope had rubbed against him.

Deimos walks back around and crouches down in front of him, lightly grabbing the boy’s wrists in his hands; Zen can feel the medical tape and gauze covering a few of Deimos’ fingers as he inspects the damage. “I’m sorry pup, I didn’t mean for you to get hurt,” he apologizes. Zen’s brain stops in it’s tracks for a moment, Deimos’ personality a complete 180 from the last time he saw him. Then again, he did severely injure Deimos the time before.

“I hope that this makes up for it,” Deimos finishes, pushing Zen down by his shoulders and pulling his grey boxers off of him. Zen shivers strongly at the close contact with the icy cold floor. He feels Deimos’ large hands massaging his ass and the back of his thighs, he can’t deny that it feels good. Deimos works the plump, soft skin, relishing in the way that Zen squirms and how he tries to hold back his little noises of pleasure.

He retreats his hand in search of a bottle of lube and the tail. He opens the bottle and pours a generous amount on his right hand before traveling it back up Zen’s thigh to the curve of his ass. Deimos pushes Zen’s legs apart before dragging his lubed fingers to his pink, puckered hole. He prods the ring of muscle gently and circles it before pushing his index finger in.

Zen moans at the intrusion, the unfamiliar feeling weird but not exactly unpleasant. Deimos smirks before taking his finger almost all the way out and pushing it back in, repeating his movement as he hears Zen’s whimper, the younger’s erection growing fast at the newfound pleasure. The back and forth movement is wet, and makes a squishy sound. Deimos decides to up the ante and pushes in his middle finger, stretching out Zen’s ass a little bit more before pounding his fingers in and out.

Zen mewls in pleasure and unconsciously pushes his hips back, his dick rubbing against the floor in the process as Deimos continues to hammer into Zen, the red-head crying out whenever his long fingers curved up to hit that certain blissful spot.

The younger boy cries in pleasure and starts to twitch, hips working even faster to push back against the fingers pounding into him when Zen finally reaches the edge and his body is rocked with the intensity of his orgasm as he moans loudly, flowing strands of white spurt up from his dick and paint his chest. He pants in exhaustion, chest heaving while he presses his heated body to the floor, all the while Deimos’ fingers never cease in their incessant movement.

“Did my puppy come?” He asks. Zen nods and lets out a small sound of acknowledgement. He can feel Deimos’ gaze turn sharp behind him, digging into his back. “I never said you could,” Deimos growls before shoving his fingers in and out aggressively, Zen immediately becoming hard once again. Seeing this, Deimos tears his fingers from Zen’s ass and flips him over. He zeros on Zen’s proud standing cock, the small tip pink and agitated. Deimos grabs the limb with no remorse and begins to work his hand on the growing shaft.

“No-no! T-too much!” Zen cries out, hands covering his face as he moans loudly and his body continues to spasm. “You came without permission, pup. Now you’ll face the consequences,” he says then reaches over with his other hand to grab the package containing the pink cock ring. He lets go of Zen’s suffering dick to rip open the box. Thankfully, this particular one didn’t need prior batteries or charging.

He clips the ring to the base of Zen’s erection and turns the vibration on using the remote. Almost immediately, Zen’s upper body shoots up, the vibrations making him shake and cry. In the midst of his titillation, he’s flipped onto his stomach once more by Deimos, too distracted to notice him lubing up the plug. It’s only when he feels the toy first push past his rim that he realizes it’s there, the stretch is an unfamiliar sting.

“Good boy, doing so good for me, taking it all in,” Deimos murmurs into Zen’s ear, making him whimper at the praise. Once the largest part is in, his ass clenches around the end, the fake red fur tickling at the area around it. When it’s fully in and nestled between his pale cheeks, Deimos adjusts Zen so that he’s on his knees, his pants and underwear down at his ankle, erection hard and ready.

Zen looks up at Deimos, his toned body a stark contrast to Zen’s own as Zen comes to an understanding of exactly what Deimos wants. He’s not sure he wants to do it, but he doesn’t want that punishment again, not ever. So, with wet lips, he grips the base of Deimos’ cock and laps at the red tip lightly. Deimos grunts at the contact, “don’t tease.”

Adhering to his request, Zen takes his dick into his mouth, hallowing out his cheeks, mindful not the accidentally scrape him with his teeth. He sucks and sucks, trying to imagine it as a lollipop, the vibrations from the cock ring making him moan around Deimos’ cock, which in return, causes the older to grunt in ecstasy as he gently tugs on the tail.

Zen whimpers as tears flow from his eyes, his second orgasm approaching rapidly. Unable to release himself, he crosses the peak without his release, but instead tries to focus on Deimos’ pleasure. Deimos wants more, so he grips the chained leash and forces Zen’s head down even farther, making the boy take him in deeper as he thrusts his hips into the boy’s face.


	7. s e v e n

Zen gags around his cock as the force causes one of the clipped in ears to fall out, throat constricting around the tip. The sight of Zen, tears streaking down his cheeks and so entirely fucked-out along with the added pleasure of Zen’s throat around him causes Deimos to cum hard with a final thrust, stuffing Zen’s mouth with his sticky seed, the sensation causing Zen to orgasm for the third time that night.

Deimos pulls out and tilts the younger’s head up, mouth open, showing him his cum-filled mouth. “Good boy, can you swallow it for me?” Zen does as he’s told, swallowing the bitter seed and presenting his clean mouth do Deimos. Deimos, in a rare display of affection, leans down and plants a short kiss on Zen’s lips. Just long enough to keep the lingering feeling on Zen’s lips. “Oh look at my little puppy, so fucked out and tired. Your useless little dick looks so angry, unable to cum,” Deimos taunts devilishly.

“Please, please,” Zen’s pleads desperately, wanting to release himself. “Only because you did so good, pup,” Deimos responds as he takes the cock ring off and jerks Zen only once before the red-head cums an embarrassingly large amount. It seems to be neverending when he finally stops, body immediately relaxing as he closes his eyes and rests against Deimos’ warm, bare shoulder before passing out from exhaustion. Deimos sighs and gently rests Zen on his stomach before carefully pulling out the plug and unclipping the one left over ear from his hair, opting to keep the collar on.

He picks up the boy bridle-style, making sure to support his head as he carries Zen to the bathroom to clean him up. Laying Zen on his lap, he turns on the faucet to the tub and plugs the drain, testing the water and pouring in some soap before placing Zen in. He picks Zen up again and places him in the tub gently, the water filling up around him. 

Deimos fiddles around under the sink cupboard in his search for a washcloth. When he finally finds one, he dunks the cloth in the soapy water and delicately scrubbing off the stained blood and dried cum on his face. He continues on, washing the stubborn clumps of oatmeal, sweat, and lube off the boy. He lathers shampoo in his hands and scrubs Zen’s ruby red hair, the colour deepening to that of blood.

Carefully, and almost lovingly, Deimos continues with his task of cleaning Zen before gently lifting him out of the tub and drying him off with a towel. He wraps the smaller in the towel before picking him up once again and taking him up to his room where he dresses him. 

He opts for a pair of yellow boxers that match the thick collar perched on Zen’s slim neck. He tries to pay no attention to the way he looks and slips a large black sweatshirt over Zen’s head as he settles it around his mid-thighs. Sighing, he tucks him into the bedsheets, links the end of his leash to the bedpost, and walks off to have a quick shower.

He scrubs himself down, ridding his body of the sweat clinging onto him. His shower is quick and thoughtless. Walking out of the bathroom, he observes Zen in his sleep, chest slowly rising up and down. Deimos stares at him, red hair splayed out underneath of him, black comforter settled by his hip and yellow sweatshirt riding up to show his pale tummy. Deimos puts his mind back to when Zen was on his knees in front of him, he looked gorgeous, so in his element. At least, Deimos thought so.

It was as if Zen had only been made to please Deimos, to serve him and to give him the pleasure he wanted, like it was his only want, need, and purpose in life. He sighs to himself and walks over to the opposite side of the bed before settling in comfortably next to Zen. His dark eyes bore into the pale skin of Zen’s face, as if he could sense the elder staring at him, Zen shifts onto his side, back facing Deimos. The brunet sighs, turns his back to Zen and closes his eyes, falling into a tired, deep sleep.

Throughout the night, Deimos woke up to little whimpers escaping the red-head, his weak limbs shifting around, occasionally hitting himself and Deimos. Having no experience with another person’s night terrors and sleep laced movements, he does the first thing to come to his mind. Gently grabbing the younger, he cradles him to his chest and presses against him, hoping that his body heat would help cease the incessant movements. Luckily it does, and it’s not before long when Deimos himself, is lulled back to sleep.

For Zen, he dreamt of many things that night, none too pleasant. Dark creatures lurked in the shadows of his imagination while the various mishappen and grotesque-looking faces of imaginary people stare into him. Their gorey, discoloured faces judged him, scowled at his appearance before scoffing and looking the other way. 

There were little things that were off, not entirely scary but unfamiliar enough that it caused a bothered feeling to hang in the air as he walked down the streets of his dreamscape. The sky was white, the clouds blue, the yellow street lines now circular and nonsensical. It was only when he opened his eyes that Zen realized he’d been dreaming, bright rays of sun assaulting his freshly opened eyes. He pushes himself up using his elbows and scans the room, the small area so immaculately cleaned that even the idea of someone living in it daily seems impossible.

He sighs out and leans his head back while closing his eyes, letting gravity drag them down. Memories of the previous night flood back into his brain, polluting his mind of the actions he took place in only hours before. He groans softly to himself and buries his head into his hands, hoping that the world would decide to take pity on him and swallow him up whole. Why did I do that? What was I thinking? What is wrong with me... I even enjoyed it! Well, he is attractive. I’ll give him that, and I wanted to fuck him so badly earlier, but what we did last night was not how I thought it’d be.

He was...scary. Zen laments and runs his hand up through his hair and back down his neck before crossing them over his torso, hugging himself close. He was attracted to Deimos, of course he was, who wouldn’t be? Zen had hoped that when he had sex with Deimos, they’d be more than glorified strangers, they’d be friends, or maybe even a couple. He now knew that his little fantasy was pointless and just that, a fantasy.

The red-head’s thoughts jumble up, unsure of exactly how last night’s activities made him felt. He thought that it’d be good, because he’d be with Deimos, and it was good. Zen felt pleasure like he never had before, yet, something about it was wrong. Really wrong. It was icky, he felt icky. Deimos felt icky. Before then, his imagination had led him to believe that no matter the situation, whether he was forced into it or if it was mutually consensual the entire time, that he’d like it, and he’d be grateful to Deimos for it. His views are obviously twisted, enough so that it would warrant a therapist, but Zen hadn’t put much thought into why he felt that way, nor had he really cared enough to.

Zen’s conflict. One side of his mind is telling him to run, run far away and never look back. The other side, the one that’s winning, is telling him to stay, that he needs to stay because Deimos is actually good. Yes, he’s good. He treated Zen kindly by prepping him, by allowing him the pleasure that he got, and by allowing him to bring Deimos pleasure too. Zen was needed here, Deimos needed him. Who else would give the man the pleasure that he wanted? That’s my purpose..Zen trailed off to himself, finally coming to the conclusion that, yes, he will stay. He’ll keep giving Deimos his pleasure, he’ll live that way, after all, and (hopefully) he will receive immense amounts of pleasure himself.

After coming to a resolution himself, Zen attempts to climb out of the nest of sheets and blankets he had unconsciously cocooned himself in, only to fail miserably as a sharp, noticeable pain flickers in his lower back. It’s only then that he looks down and regards the disgusting sight of his bruised wrists. The rope he had been bound with for who knows how long, had dug into his skin as he squirmed around in his light, pitiful sleep. The fibers pushing and pulling against his otherwise unmarked skin, the only other thing joining the new marks were a few scattered horizontal scars left over from his dismal years at high school

Observing the marks, he takes in the way his skin is ripped and torn, like someone had scrubbed at it with steel wool for hours, pieces of skin poking up into the air as the newly exposed flesh underneath it is exposed to the world. Around it, the surface of both wrists is bruised heavily, though it is healing as some of the bruises are now an ugly yellow colour. While looking at his damaged body, his brain finally acknowledges the large, greatly oversized but comfy, black hoodie, along with the pair of slightly-to-big-to-be-his boxers. He feels the weight of the collar on his neck, surprised that his skin is yet to feel raw against it.

His violet eyes catch sight of a silver glimmer and he moves his hand to lightly grasp it in his hand, only to find that it’s the chain attached to his collar. Following the metal with his eyes, he catches sight of the way it’s wrapped, knotted, and secured around the shiny iron headboard, the chains held together with a purple lock, the same kind that Zen vaughly remembers having on his gym locker throughout middle school and high school. He wants to attempt to get out, but he has not an inkling of what the code could be, so instead, he lies back down and snuggles himself back into the blankets. His mind drifts into space as he falls into a light sleep.


	8. e i g h t

He scrubs himself down, ridding his body of the sweat clinging onto him. His shower is quick and thoughtless. Walking out of the bathroom, he observes Zen in his sleep, chest slowly rising up and down. Deimos stares at him, red hair splayed out underneath of him, black comforter settled by his hip and yellow sweatshirt riding up to show his pale tummy. Deimos puts his mind back to when Zen was on his knees in front of him, he looked gorgeous, so in his element. At least, Deimos thought so.

It was as if Zen had only been made to please Deimos, to serve him and to give him the pleasure he wanted, like it was his only want, need, and purpose in life. He sighs to himself and walks over to the opposite side of the bed before settling in comfortably next to Zen. His dark eyes bore into the pale skin of Zen's face, as if he could sense the elder staring at him, Zen shifts onto his side, back facing Deimos. The brunet sighs, turns his back to Zen and closes his eyes, falling into a tired, deep sleep.

Throughout the night, Deimos woke up to little whimpers escaping the red-head, his weak limbs shifting around, occasionally hitting himself and Deimos. Having no experience with another person's night terrors and sleep laced movements, he does the first thing to come to his mind. Gently grabbing the younger, he cradles him to his chest and presses against him, hoping that his body heat would help cease the incessant movements. Luckily it does, and it's not before long when Deimos himself is lulled back to sleep.

For Zen, he dreamt of many things that night, none too pleasant. Dark creatures lurked in the shadows of his imagination while the various misshapen and grotesque-looking faces of imaginary people stare into him. Their gorey, discoloured faces judged him, scowled at his appearance before scoffing and looking the other way. There were little things that were off, not entirely scary but unfamiliar enough that it caused a bothered feeling to hang in the air as he walked down the streets of his dreamscape. The sky was white, the clouds blue, the yellow street lines now circular and nonsensical. It was only when he opened his eyes that Zen realized he'd been dreaming, bright rays of sun assaulting his freshly opened eyes. He pushes himself up using his elbows and scans the room, the small area so immaculately cleaned that even the idea of someone living in it daily seems impossible.

He sighs out and leans his head back while closing his eyes, letting gravity drag them down. Memories of the previous night flood back into his brain, polluting his mind of the actions he took place in only hours before. He groans softly to himself and buries his head into his hands, hoping that the world would decide to take pity on him and swallow him up whole. Why did I do that? What was I thinking? What is wrong with me... I even enjoyed it! Well, he is attractive. I'll give him that, and I wanted to fuck him so badly earlier, but what we did last night was not how I thought it'd be.

He was...scary. Zen laments and runs his hand up through his hair and back down his neck before crossing them over his torso, hugging himself close. He was attracted to Deimos, of course he was, who wouldn't be? Zen had hoped that when he had sex with Deimos, they'd be more than glorified strangers, they'd be friends, or maybe even a couple. He now knew that his little fantasy was pointless and just that, a fantasy.

The red-head's thoughts jumble up, unsure of exactly how last night's activities made him feel. He thought that it'd be good, because he'd be with Deimos, and it was good. Zen felt pleasure like he never had before, yet, something about it was wrong. Really wrong. It was icky, he felt icky. Deimos felt icky. Before then, his imagination had led him to believe that no matter the situation, whether he was forced into it or if it was mutually consensual the entire time, that he'd like it, and he'd be grateful to Deimos for it. His views are obviously twisted, enough so that it would warrant a therapist, but Zen hadn't put much thought into why he felt that way, nor had he really cared enough to.

Zen's conflict: one side of his mind is telling him to run, run far away and never look back. The other side, the one that's winning, is telling him to stay, that he needs to stay because Deimos is actually good. Yes, he's good. He treated Zen kindly by prepping him, by allowing him the pleasure that he got, and by allowing him to bring Deimos pleasure too. Zen was needed here, Deimos needed him. Who else would give the man the pleasure that he wanted? That's my purpose..Zen trailed off to himself, finally coming to the conclusion that, yes, he will stay. He'll keep giving Deimos his pleasure, he'll live that way, after all, and (hopefully) he will receive immense amounts of pleasure himself.

After coming to a resolution himself, Zen attempts to climb out of the nest of sheets and blankets he had unconsciously cocooned himself in, only to fail miserably as a sharp, noticeable pain flickers in his lower back. It's only then that he looks down and regards the disgusting sight of his bruised wrists. The rope he had been bound with for who knows how long, had dug into his skin as he squirmed around in his light, pitiful sleep. The fibers pushing and pulling against his otherwise unmarked skin, the only other thing joining the new marks were a few scattered horizontal scars left over from his dismal years at high school

Observing the marks, he takes in the way his skin is ripped and torn, like someone had scrubbed at it with steel wool for hours, pieces of skin poking up into the air as the newly exposed flesh underneath it is exposed to the world. Around it, the surface of both wrists is bruised heavily, though it is healing as some of the bruises are now an ugly yellow colour. While looking at his damaged body, his brain finally acknowledges the large, greatly oversized but comfy, black hoodie, along with the pair of slightly-to-big-to-be-his boxers. He feels the weight of the collar on his neck, surprised that his skin is yet to feel raw against it.

His violet eyes catch sight of a silver glimmer and he moves his hand to lightly grasp it in his hand, only to find that it's the chain attached to his collar. Following the metal with his eyes, he catches sight of the way it's wrapped, knotted, and secured around the shiny iron headboard, the chains held together with a purple lock, the same kind that Zen vaughly remembers having on his gym locker throughout middle school and high school. He wants to attempt to get out, but he has not an inkling of what the code could be, so instead, he lies back down and snuggles himself back into the blankets. His mind drifts into space as he falls into a light sleep.


	9. n i n e

Maite Medina is many things. She's a woman, she's Hispanic, she's short, and she's a prosecutor. In her line of field, certain types of people are harder than they should be to take down, people who are upper class, and those that are or are related to police officers or any kind of law enforcement. Throughout her meager years of work, she'd managed to take down hundreds of dirty cops and politicians, though some came back up due to the sheer amount of money that they possessed; but, as much as she wanted to take them back down, she had other cases to work on, this one included.

The freezing air nipped at her tanned skin, causing her nose to run and her cheeks to flush as the cusp between winter and autumn starts to fall more on the icy side. Currently staring down at the mangled body parts of some poor girl, she suppresses her gag at the sight of the corpse. All of the woman's parts had been laid out on a bright blue plastic tarp, her skin impossibly pale a ghastly, the skin surrounding the severed parts stained a bright red, most likely from her own blood.

Maite tears her eyes from the dismembered limbs and trails them over to the head, her natural curiosity wanting to be satisfied. As soon as her dark eyes meet the sight of the body-less head, her breath hitches in her throat and her heart seems to stop beating. Jayla. That's her! At the realization that the deceased woman is her missing friend, Maite gasps loudly and slaps her hands over her mouth, trying to suppress the scream of distress escaping, she collapses to the floor and sobs into her hands, not the least bit prepared to see her best friend's lifeless, mutilated body in front of her.

Hearing her cry of anguish, her co-workers run towards her, not used to the loud, brash emotions emitting from their supervisor. "Captain Medina! What's wrong?" She hears her newest recruit, Officer Aiden Becker, shout as the sound of his heavy equipment bounces around as he quickly trudges his way to her. Too distraught to respond with words, a pathetic whimper escapes her before she messily wipes the tears from her face using the sleeve of her uniform, the light blue now damped darker. She stands up to her feet and turns herself away from her subordinate while she collects herself, trying to keep what little composure she has left. When she is sure that no more tears are flowing from her eyes, she turns around to face her partner, eyes puffy and cheeks red.

"Nothing is wrong, I'm fine, Becker. Get the forensic team to start documenting, I want it done in an hour," Maite coldy replies, not letting the blond get a word in before she ambles through the woods and over to the squad car before turning on the ignition. "Oh, and hitch a ride with Meyers," she yells as a final thought before taking off, peeling herself away from the crime scene, tears starting to flow down her face as her composure breaks once more now that she's alone. Sobs wrack her body as she drives fast down the highway, speeding through the irony of her actions. All she can see is Jayla's lifeless blue eyes burning into hers, memories of the two over the years flashing through her brain. Dead, she's dead, and she's not coming back. The moment that thought whizzes through Maite's mind, it's over, it finally fully settles in. Her woman, is completely, and utterly, dead.

With her mind occupied, she drives and drives, looking for no specific destination when she stumbles upon a small locally owned diner. Almost busting in, she hastily slides into an empty booth, elbows resting on the varnished wooden table as she rips her hair from its tight bun and drags her fingers through the dark, tightly curled tresses.

"Fuck! No, no, no," she whimpers out quietly to herself tears running down her face in a constant river of grief, her frazzled state drawing the attention of an older woman wearing a waitress' uniform. The plump woman slides next to the sobbing officer, a warm, comforting hand almost unconsciously planting itself on her back, rubbing in soothing circles of comfort. "Sweetie, are you okay?" The woman asks. Hearing her question tips Maite even farther as she completely lets go and sobs into the comforting, motherly touch of the kind stranger, her sorrows flowing from her body in waves.

It's just before noon when Deimos walks up the creaky wooden steps, a tray filled with an absolute variety of food occupying his hands. In their stupor last night, Deimos had forgotten to give Zen his reward meal, guilt coursing through him when he awoke that morning to see the frail, sleeping red-head lying next to him, chest rising and falling softly with his unconscious breathing. He hopes that Zen can forgive him, that he understands that Deimos had to do it, that it was his consequence for being bad. His thoughts take a deep dive as he opens the bedroom door to see Zen awake, his beauteous violet eyes heavy with exhaustion, matching purple eye bags taking place underneath them, skin pale as paper and hair red as strawberries.

As soon as he walks through the door, Zen's marvelous purple gems meet Deimos' dark brown ones, the smaller's hand running up through his hair as he bows his head nervously, averting his eyes. When Deimos spots the mangled state of Zen's wrists, he gasps lightly and quickly walks over to him, placing the tray of food down next to the red-head on the bed. Zen, startled, shifts himself quickly, body pressed to the cold metal headboard, knees pulled up to his chest, weary of Deimos. Seeing his frightened look, Deimos' eyes widen in surprise and he leans into Zen, his warm body radiating a warm heat that makes Zen unconsciously relax, though only slightly.

As Zen raises his left arm to move his hair form his face, Deimos gently grabs the boy's forearm and pulls it towards him. Dark eyes are full trained on the harsh lacerations that had been cut into his victim's flesh, the skin badly bruised but healing slightly, blotches of purple and yellow decorate the pale skin, sporadic spots of dark blood stroke the light surface, staining the light background. Deimos feels his eyes water and quickly brings a sleeve to his face to hide them from Zen, unable to look him in the eye as he's faced with the consequences of what he had done, permanent scarring from his torture is imminent, imperishable and a constant reminder. Deimos can't help but wonder what the rough, textured scarring would look against the inner part of Zen's wrists, the skin around it soft and delicate.

Feeling remorse, Deimos brings Zen's wrist up to his lips, gently pressing the mounds against the painful marks, trying to offer some kind of solace to the quivering red-head. Zen, however, flinches greatly at the feeling of Deimos' lips against his skin, the flesh tender and raw. He looks away, unwilling to watch the scene in front of him when something warm and wet flashes across his skin, unwelcome and weird, and Zen can only deduce that the feeling is Deimos' tongue against him as he attempts to squirm against the taller, the other's grip taut and unwavering. Deimos continues to flick his tongue along the raw flesh, the taste of iron-filled blood running into his mouth and tanging along his tastebuds, teeth picking up the bright red colour.

Underneath his dampened muscle, he can feel every edge of torn flesh, the jagged skin getting stuck in his stained pearly whites. The salty taste of sweat flowing into and filling his senses as he indulges himself in the grotesque sapidity of it, his tongue feeling the puffed up and swollen bruises that had formed on Zen's skin. Zen curls into himself as best as he can, trying to put as much distance between him and Deimos as he can without angering him while he feels Deimos prod the sore bruises with his tongue, inaudible whimpers of pain escaping as Zen's violet eyes cry quietly, acquiescent streams trickling from his puffy eyes to his scarlett red cheeks and down his chin.

With one final kiss, Deimos lowers Zen's arm, the red-head immediately snatching his arm back to his body, cradling the limb protectively. Deimos just laughs at his reaction and reaches for the tray of food. He grabs a woven cracker and a piece of orange cheese, stacking the cheese on top, he holds it out in front of Zen, an eager look on his face. Zen stares at the food suspiciously, unsure of the newly presented food. Deciding that it could be worse, he leans forewards slightly and opens his mouth, welcoming the sustenance. Deimos chuckles at Zen's eagerness and all but shoves it into his mouth, watching the change in Zen's face, Deimos smiles when Zen chews contentedly, savouring the taste. Though it's much appreciated, Zen's mouth dries up even more from the dry cracker as he has trouble swallowing it, it's then that he becomes painfully aware of how dry his mouth is. He looks over at Deimos in desperation, unable to speak with his sore throat, he gestures to his neck and weakly imitates a drinking motion with his hand.

Thankfully, Deimos gets the message and opens a new plastic bottle of water and holds it up to Zen's parched, cracked lips. Zen greedily drinks the liquid, suckling on it like a babe would to their mother's breast. He finishes the first bottle in less than a minute, the second takes a little bit longer, and the third longer than that, to the point where Zen can alternate between feeding on the various snacks brought to him and taking refreshing gulps of cold water. Once he's sure he can't eat any more, he looks at Deimos to see the brunet looking at him in what seems to be adoration, though Zen can't really tell. Deimos shuffles closer to him and reaches around his body, his face less than six inches away, Zen can hear the sound of clanking metal and feels the collar against his neck go slightly slack.

"We need to clean these up," Deimos murmurs quietly, pressing a finger into Zen's wrist. His throat feeling much better, Zen responds weakly, "O..kay." Deimos smiles in affirmation and picks up the older with little to no hesitation and carries him to the bathroom once again, aware that he could not move after the activities of the last few days. Zen's violet eyes scan the room, the entire space white from the curtains to the toothbrushes, it reminds him of a hospital, and suddenly he wishes that he could go back to the warm, dark comfort of Deimos's bed. Setting Zen down on the ground, Deimos props him against the side of the tub and crouches down to rummage through the cabinet beneath the sink. He emerges with a bright red First-Aid kit, the colour matching with Zen's muffled hair, the two blotches of colour standing out against the menial, boring white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: extreme graphic details: cannibalism


	10. t e n

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhm i have nothing to say for why this is taking me so long to update other than i am lazy and have no motivation ahaha i hope you enjoy

Zen looks on wearily as Deimos opens the kit and rustles through it, looking for an antiseptic and some gauze. He sets down his materials as he finds them, fluffy cotton balls, a brown bottle of peroxide, rolls of white gauze, a tube of Neosporin, and a fluffy light blue washcloth. Looking back up at Zen, Deimos meets his untrusting violet eyes and smiles gently, hoping that it would soothe the faux ginger’s uneasiness.

Unknown to Deimos however, was that the shift in his attitude was what had spooked Zen in the first place. Zen, unable to handle the duality, shies away his gaze from Deimos’ and chooses to stare at the bland white wall, the boring surface suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Deimos huffs lowly at Zen, upset that the smaller won’t look at him, tends to Zen’s wounds Bitter about the lack of attention from the red head, Deimos purposely spills more peroxide than needed onto to sore, open wound, causing Zen to painfully hiss air in through his teeth. A small whimper escapes him, “ow!” Deimos looks up at him, still upset and mutters a low, “deal with it.” After minutes of that stinging pain, Deimos finally finishes wrapping the gauze around Zen’s wrists, the familiar look and feel sending his mind back to a bad time; his eyes tear up.

Deimos, seeing the distressful tears in his eyes, he takes the older’s chin in his fingers and leans up to kiss the falling liquid grief from Zen’s pink cheeks. Zen, once again distraught at the elder’s tenderness, cries more, rivers of silent tears flow down his face and pool onto his chin, dripping down onto the white tiles below. At the sight of the frequent, fat tears, Deimos pulls his hand away from Zen’s pale face, disgusted at the sight of the pathetic rolling tears, Zen’s nose leaking mucus as he heaves.

“Fucking disgusting,” he murmurs before leaving Zen alone in the manic white bathroom. Zen cries more, careful to be quiet as to not receive another punishment. He curls up into himself, his naked legs shivering against the freezing tile floor, ignoring the sensation, he wills himself back to sleep.

With disgust on his face, Deimos sits on top of his messy bedsheets, staring at the uneaten food he’d prepared for Zen. He sighs, realizing that he needs to give Zen food or he’ll die, “so much work.” He grabs the tray of food and grumbles back to the bathroom. When he sees Zen lying on the cold tiled floor, he immediately sets the tray on the counter and lifts the boy up, not wanting his precious puppy to get a cold. Zen grumbles lightly and groggily wakes to see Deimos’ tan face close to his. Startled, he lets out a small screech and tries to wiggle his way out of Deimos’ arms. Deimos growls and tightens his hold on the boy. 

“Stop fucking squirming!” He demands angrily. At the tone of his voice, Zen immediately stops his movements out of fear, mind doing circles trying to comprehend the continuous, confusing shifts in Deimos’ personality. He calms himself down as much as he can, feeling his body be set down gently on the plush bed, his body relaxing almost instantaneously when Deimos’ hands leave it. He watches the taller go back into the bathroom and retrieve the uneaten tray of food.

Zen studies the cuisine on the tray, the variety of colours and textures much more appealing to him than the previous food he’d been...served. I don’t think I can ever look at oatmeal again. He lightly shivers at the remembrance. Deimos sets the tray down in front of Zen as he sits across from him, dark eyes digging into Zen’s purple ones. Uncomfortable under his gaze, Zen squirms around and fiddles with the hem of his oversized yellow hoodie, head down as his violet eyes are trained on the top of his pale thighs, small bruises littering the once unmarked skin. 

“Eat,” Deimos demands, pushing the tray toward the smaller. Zen, still cautious, reaches a small hand out and grabs an apple slice off of the tray, he places in his mouth and bites down. The fruity flavour explodes and he moans in pleasure, the taste indescribable to him. Once he swallows the piece of fruit, his stomach growls, wanting more. He continues to snatch food from the tray, crackers, pieces of ham, almonds, slices of cheese, various fruits, celery, carrots. He can’t get enough. He’s halfway through a small stalk of celery when Deimos interrupts him, “look up,” he demands. The red-head stops his munching and freezes at the command. 

“I said,” Deimos grabs Zen’s chin, “look up.” Zen’s eyes meet Deimos’ the empty darkness scaring him, Zen’s emotions immediately display themselves on his face. Deimos can see the fear in his violet eyes and smirks, “there you go, look at your pretty little eyes,” Deimos coos dangerously, his voice laced with darker intentions. 

Zen gulps and continues to munch on the bright green celery, his eating seemingly more cautious than before. Deimos leans his head onto his hand, watching the boy as he eats, causing Zen to become increasingly more aware of how ferociously he’d been eating. He finishes his celery stalk and lets his hands fall into his lap, his thumbs twiddling with each other. 

The silence is tense as Deimos’ eyes bore into the smaller, two beams piercing into the red-head’s skin. Without warning, Deimos shifts closer to Zen and gently grabs his chin like he had previously done, Zen’s eyes widen at the impulsive movement. Deimos’ warm breath bounce on Zen’s pale skin, the sudden warmth causing goosebumps to break out over his skin.

Deimos then leans in closer, lips trailing just outside of Zen’s, the plump pillows of flesh part, allowing the wet muscle of Deimos’ tongue to come out and prod at the smaller’s skin. Zen gasps at the unexpected feeling, hands anxiously balled up, fisting his yellow hoodie. He closes his eyes as he feels Deimos’ tongue run over the flesh underneath his bottom lip, then the right corner, and the left, licking up the leftover crumbs from Zen’s binge. Deimos stops, keeping his lips hovering just in front of Zen’s, lightly brushing against them sporadically, allowing only the slightest touch.

Zen doesn’t know why, but the slightest movement of Deimos’ tongue and lips against his skin leave him yearning for more. A strong visceral feeling starts growing inside of him, Zen tries his best to ignore it. Deimos’ large hands come up to grab fist-fulls of his curly red hair, tilting his head back, he leans himself over the smaller boy, lips brushing his once again. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Zen abruptly leans up and finally connects his lips with the younger’s, he can feel Deimos smirk into the kiss as he does so. Zen desperately suckles and bites at Deimos’ lips, uncaring to what the consequences of his actions could be. Deimos roughly takes over the kiss, tongue forcefully penetrating through Zen’s once sealed lips.

Zen squeaks in surprise but allows Deimos’ tongue to take dominance and explore his mouth, running over his teeth and the inside of his cheeks. Deimos grunts at the taste of Zen, the leftover flavours of the various foods that he’d eaten before accompany his natural taste. Zen loses himself in the feeling of being kissed, danger and caution lurking in the back of his mind. He kisses back hard, lips sliding against Deimos’ fervently, his back meets the top of the plush bed, his shoulder blades press against it as Deimos’ cold hand runs it’s way up his stomach.

At the feeling of his freezing hand, Zen shivers and pulls back from the kiss with a gasp, body shaking slightly with the force of his shivers. Deimos observes the way the boy convulses with merit, liking the way that the shivers caused the boy’s nipples to harden and push against the fabric of his sweatshirt. It’s a sight that is so unintentionally erotic and Deimos has to force himself to not rip the thin boxers from Zen’s small frame and take him then and there.

Against his urges, he decides to let Zen’s mind and body rest and recover from the night before. Deimos can see how tired he is. Zen, still coming down from the high of the kiss, sinks into the mattress, head fuzzy and thoughts muffled. In exhaustion, he finally closes his eyes and drifts back into sleep. He can vaguely feel Deimos’ weight leaving the bed right before he gives in to his doze. Deimos sighs and stares at the read head before turning around and leaving him to slumber away in his dreamland.


	11. e l e v e n

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhhh hi y'all....
> 
> i'm back~!!
> 
> i finally have face claims for deimos and zen so that's helping with the visualization and the writer's block i had lolol (that and playing mystic messenger religiously)

Zen’s mind is reeling. Everything is black. He knows there’s things in the room, there’s a table, two chairs, books on the floor, and even an old, rusty light fixture. He can’t see any of it, but he knows that it’s there. Walking around the room with his arms out in from of him, Zen feels his way around the space, unfamiliarity clouding his brain. He can feel rough carpet under him, the yarn-like fabric tearing and scratching away at his feet.

He trips over himself and stumbles forward, hand coming into contact with what he assumes is a tabletop. As soon as he makes contact with the furniture, the room turns white and his eyes sting at the sudden brightness. Z

en brings his hands to his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the light only to find that they’ve been restrained by something, he can’t exactly tell what. He attempts to yank his hands from their binds but he’s unsuccessful. His futile endeavors only result in the restraints tightening further.

With his eyes preoccupied, Zen fails to notice the looming, shadowy figure that materializes a mere meter in front of him at most. Once the purple-eyed male realizes his attempts at escape lead to nothing but more restriction, he slacks in defeat and glances up.

His eyes are met with the ghastly sight of Deimos, chest and head covered in blood as a leaking stab wound pulses eerily. Small, frequent rivers of blood run from his torso and down to his legs before it pools at his feet. Zen shakes at the sight as he starts up his struggling once again, the results of his previous attempts having seemingly vanished.

“No! Stop!” He yells frightfully, tears quickly well up in his eyes and stream down his cheeks as the phantom Deimos continues to stalk closer. Bright red blood falls from Deimos and onto Zen as the younger leans over him, eyes dark and unhinged.

The brunet lets out a snarl before leaning down to the shaking red-head’s ear, “what a filthy little murderer you are.” Zen’s eyes go wide as his breathing becomes heavy, his chest heaving aggressively.

“Look what you did to me, look! Aren’t you proud? You killed me! Good job!” He praises relentlessly as he continues to get closer and closer. Deimos’ blood stained hands grip onto the fabric of Zen’s white shirt, staining it permanently. Even in his dream, Zen can do nothing but shake and whine and sob, desperately wanting whatever is happening to just be over.

Deimos sighs as he leans on the counter.

Tap, tappity, tap, tap.

His fingers drum against the granite, ears picking up on the incessant noise of water dripping from the faucet. He thinks back to the newly-experienced...session with Zen. The images of how the boy swallowed nervously, obviously feeling intimidated by Deimos, stuck in the brunet’s mind. The way he licked the salt off his plush lips oh-so-innocently. His sounds, God his sounds. The little whimpers he made and the groans that came from deep in his stomach...Deimos decides he can’t get enough, and his friend seems to agree with him.

Mind wandering, he bites the edge of his thumb nail with a lustful look in his eyes. The dark irises trail over to the stairs, the the thought of waking the red-head up to take care of the problem in Deimos’ pants was incredibly appealing and mind-numbingly erotic.

The visual of the pale boy’s lips wrapped around his cock was almost too much for his brain to be able to make a rational decision. But Deimos shook his head, quickly deciding that he didn’t want to push the boy too far. Deimos didn’t want to kill him, he wanted to break him, and when it comes to breaking someone, you need a resting period so it doesn’t get boring. The young man knows that if he continues to push Zen’s body, his brain will follow close behind all too soon. And he can’t have that.

So, with a desire-filled sigh, Deimos trails a hand down to his pelvis, long fingers dancing around the edge of his sweats. He pushes past the waistband of both his pants and hix boxers to palm at his stinging erection. He moans to himself at the first touch, not caring that he is out in the open, as exposed to the world as an antelope is to a lion.

He teases his fingers over the head of his cock, imagining, no, wishing for it to be Zen’s mouth in replacement. He groans loudly at the thought before fisting his hard girth and dragging his hand up and down at an almost agonizingly slow pace. Quickly, with his other hand, he pushes his pants and boxers down past the curve of his ass. Pants come from his mouth as the brown fringe on his forehead starts to dark and stick to his face, drenched in salty sweat.

He decides he’s had enough of his self-inflicted teasing and speeds up the process, he moves his hips in tune with his hand, fucking his fist loudly. Wet, sloppy sounds emit from the friction of the pre-cum on his shaft and hands.

Moans spill from his mouth, along with the occasional “fuck.”

Deimos continues to imagine that it’s Zen working on him. When the smaller’s tongue flattens and rocks against the underside of Deimos’ cock, Deimos works his hands in the same way, swiping a finger along the sensitive, bulging vein.

Deimos works his hand faster and faster, pounding into his fist before finishing with a loud, pleasured moan. Hot ropes of white cum spurt up onto his chest and the counter in front of him, his mind reels as he comes down from his high.

Tan arms support his weight against the counter as Deimos’s impressive erection softens from the release, becoming flaccid as it lies against his thighs. With heavy pants, Deimos pushes off the counter and grabs a dishrag, he wets it with warm water and proceeds to clean himself and the counter off before heading upstairs.

With a low sigh, he observes the by sleeping in his bed. He looks peaceful. Curly red hair splayed across the black sheets, hands fisted together by his pale face, a little line of drool falls from his lips and Deimos can’t seem to bring himself to care all too much. (Even though he knows it’ll leave a nasty feeling wet mark.)

Without a second thought, Deimos slips underneath the covers next to Zen and pulls said boy against his chest before drifting off into dreamland himself, the little red-head curled against him, sleeping soundly. If one didn’t know of the grotesque circumstances, they’d describe such a scene as cute, endearing, or even affectionate, but that is not the case.


	12. t w e l v e

Exhausted eyes trail over to the angry red letters on the alarm clock across the room. Maite reaches up high to stretch out her muscles from the lack of use as she takes note of how long she’d been working. Her eyes widen as she realizes that she’d been absentmindedly working for almost six hours and counting.

Her brain was practically fried at this point. Maite couldn’t give up though, she needed to figure out what had happened to Jayla, and in turn, her cousin.

Two weeks after Jayla’s remains were found, a missing person’s report was filed on the blonde girl’s cousin, Zen. He hadn’t shown up to work for weeks, which was highly unusual for him, as he was known for being diligent. The day after a missing person’s report on his cousin came out, the boy took a few days off work to cope with the loss.

Zen knew that missing people rarely came back. Once the news that both of them had gone missing spread around, Maite knew something was happening. The cousins were close, almost like siblings, and neither of them went somewhere without the other.

Jayla had been killed after being held captive for two weeks. Within those two weeks she’d been raped repeatedly, though there was no telling if the sex was actually consensual or not. (Maite doubted that it was)

She was concerningly malnourished, her skin was discoloured with bruises and she’d began to show signs of jaundice. Jayla’s once to-die-for blonde hair was now caked with her own blood and was unevenly and haphazardly cut off. Maite hated to think about it, but if the cases were connected, Zen could turn up mutilated in the same way any day now.

She could only shiver at the thought and hope and pray that the cases were unrelated. Deciding she needed a break, Maite took her glasses off and rubbed at her eyes in exhaustion. The dark-haired brunette stood from her dining room table and stalked over to her kitchen.

With her huge purple eye bags and depressing zombie-like walk, Maite looked like a dead man walking. She reaches up to the cabinet and grabs an empty glass before filling it up from the tap. It’s gone within a gulp or two.

Maite can’t seem to get enough of the late night beverage (it’s just water…), she refills the cup endlessly before she’s sure she can drink no longer. Her head slams into the wall, body putting all its weight on the blue surface. Tears pour out of her eyes, they roll over the peaks of her cheeks, down the crevice of her chin, and onto the floor below. The fat streams continue to flow, only getting heavier as time goes on and as she cries.

She cries for Jayla, for Zen, and for herself. She cries for the effervescent girl whose life had been stripped away from her. She cries for the boy who seemed to disappear from thin air, and she cried i hopes that he wasn’t, that he was okay. Finally, she cried for the girl who lost their best friend. The girl who lost the love of her life, who never made it clear that she loved her.

Maite collapses, crumpling into a pathetic ball on the floor, hair matted, messy tears, and rumpled clothes. Finding it hard to accept the reality that her deepest happiness and love had left the Earth, that she was no longer there to shoot Maite her precious smiles.

No longer able to chortle loudly and get drunk off of cheap wine with the brunette. Maite continues to shake as her mind goes back to the old couple from the mom and pop diner she’d stumbled into immediately following the discovery of Jayla’s death.

Her cries were loud and uncaring, not a single thought about the other people in the diner crossed her mind as she deflates into a corner booth.

So thoroughly distracted by her own grief, Maite didn’t notice the person sliding across from her until she felt a hand against her back. The soothing touch helped to calm the girl down, her sniffles and tears becoming less aggressive.

“Hey, baby what’s wrong?” The voice of an elderly woman rang through her ears. Maite sighs into the touch, the woman’s voice immediately calming her down even more, it’s such a familiar feeling, that calm voice and touch of a wise old woman.

“I lost her...my love, she’s gone,” Maite sniffles painfully. The woman coos and scootches closer, pulling the melancholy girl to her chest lovingly. Maite leans into the touch, finding great solace in the comfort of this stranger.

“Want to tell me about it honey?” The woman questions.

“Can I tell you about her?”

Eyes crinkle and she nods, bringing her wrinkled hand to pet at brunette hair. Maite soon dives in to explaining to the woman who Jayla was and how they met.

“It was back in high school, I’m a year older than she is and we didn’t take any of the same electives so I didn’t have any classes with her. I had classes with her cousin, Zen, who’s two years older than me. He introduced me to her,” she starts to explain.

“We had art together and we were paired for this huge long-term display piece, and I went over to his place so we could work on it. That’s when I met her for the first time. This scrawny little girl straight out of middle school.” Maite shifted, she now rested sideways in the booth, her head on the woman’s lap. The old woman continued to stroke Maite’s hair calmingly.

Maite went on to tell her how she realized she fell in love with Jayla. The first time of many that she realized Jayla would never love her back. Confessing her secret to Zen when he confronted Maite about her behavior in regards to Jayla’s first boyfriend. Going out to town and getting blackout drunk on Jayla’s twenty-first birthday and waking up the day after, videos of tequila shenanigans and whiskey-driven dances taking up storage on their phones.

She recounted every time the blonde would come to her sobbing her eyes out from a new break up or jerk that lead her on. Maite hated seeing her cry, but those nights were the best. She had Jayla to herself, it was just the two of them together on Maite’s couch. Cheesy Lifetime movies would play back-to-back as the girls pigged out on ice cream, candies, and pizza. Those were the best nights, where Maite got to cuddle with her as much as she wanted, could encourage her and love on her and Jayla would soak it all up.

Maite felt comfortable, so she told the woman everything. How Jayla’d been clubbing with Zen and went missing before turning up not only murdered, but dismembered. How her cousin had gone missing right after her, and he still hadn’t turned up. The woman was shocked, death was not what she had first thought of when Maite had mentioned losing the love of her life. Regardless, she attempted to comfort her.

“She’s not gone. I know you must hate to hear this, but she truly isn’t. One can die and still be alive, in many ways. Your girl, her mortal body may have left this Earth but her soul is still here. She’s watching over you, she’s here, you just need to remember that,” the woman’s eyes sparkle with something knowing yet unknown.

She was right, Maite didn’t want to hear that, and yet hearing it truly did make it feel as though Jayla was still there. That sitting next to her on the red pleather booth, the blonde girl was looking at her with such love, and she was. God, was she. Maite could practically smell her lavender perfume. With a sniffle, Maite shuffled out of the booth, the woman following her soon after slowly.

“It’ll get better dear, it really will,” the woman brings Maite into a well needed hug. Maite returns it back before stepping out of the diner with a long sigh seeing as how late it had become without her knowing. She’d been there for hours.


End file.
